


Burn These Prison Walls

by hard_days_night



Category: Fall Out Boy, Green Day, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Arson, BDSM, Based on a My Chemical Romance Song, F/M, M/M, Multi, Prison, Pyromania, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hard_days_night/pseuds/hard_days_night
Summary: The night of October 31st was colder than it had been for the whole month, it seemed, and Frank had been Trick-or-Treating with his friends in the afternoon. His pillowcase was filled to the brim with sugar and sweets of every kind (having gotten extra candy at nearly every house when he happened to mention that it was his birthday). All of Frank's friends were emptying their bags on the table and trading chocolate for Skittles, and Reese's for gummy worms when Mrs. Iero walked into the room and turned off the light, the cake in her hands sporting the only light in the room now, eleven little blue candles.As soon as the cake hit the table, the room was filled with the singing voices of kids and adults alike, but Frank's eyes were glazed over with fascination at the tiny flickers of light swaying from side to side at the changes in the air. The singing had stopped and there was a timid tap on Frank's slack shoulder. He snapped out of his seeming daze and looked around to see everyone staring at him expectantly. The boy's confused mind clicked into its reality and he felt an odd pang of guilt as he leaned over the table and puckered his lips, blowing cold air onto the weak flames and killing them in one breath.
Relationships: Billie Joe Armstrong/Frank Iero, Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes, Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Lindsey Ballato/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Introduction

Excluding the prologue, this story is told completely from the perspective of Frank. It may be hard to follow at times due to the format and shaky storytelling, so I sincerely apologize in advance for any misconstrued plotlines or story points. The way I tell this story is done for a reason (which may be revealed, depending on how I want to go about it), so any questions you have I will not hesitate to answer.

That leads straight into my next point, which happens to be that any form of feedback (whether it be DMs, comments, fanart, etc.) is accepted and in fact _greatly_ appreciated. I'm a junkie for a good comment chain, especially since I am very sensitive about my creative or poetic way of writing, so fill my comments up no matter how annoying you think you are! 


	2. Prologue

It was the night of his eleventh birthday when it became very clear to his parents that Frank Iero wasn't a normal child. The night of October 31st was colder than it had been for the whole month, it seemed, and Frank had been Trick-or-Treating with his friends in the afternoon. His pillowcase was filled to the brim with sugar and sweets of every kind (having gotten extra candy at nearly every house when he happened to mention that it was his birthday). All of Frank's friends were emptying their bags on the table and trading chocolate for Skittles, and Reese's for gummy worms when Mrs. Iero walked into the room and turned off the light, the cake in her hands sporting the only light in the room now, eleven little blue candles.

As soon as the cake hit the table, the room was filled with the singing voices of kids and adults alike, but Frank's eyes were glazed over with fascination at the tiny flickers of light swaying from side to side at the changes in the air. The singing had stopped and there was a timid tap on Frank's slack shoulder. He snapped out of his seeming daze and looked around to see everyone staring at him expectantly. The boy's confused mind clicked into its reality and he felt an odd pang of guilt as he leaned over the table and puckered his lips, blowing cold air onto the weak flames and killing them in one breath.

The night went by as it was, Frank opening his presents and the room filling with excitement at each tear of the wrapping paper. The girls eventually left the party and the boys took off their costumes and makeup, starting a heated splash fight in the bathroom. After everything had settled down, Mr. and Mrs. Iero started off to bed, leaving the group of little boys to their own devices. The small mob of about 5 of Frankie's friend's gathered into the bedroom and started to drift off to sleep, but the birthday boy lay restless in his bed.

Frank bolted upright at the idea in his head, dazed and excited as his feet carried him quietly across the bedroom of snoring children. He opened the door softly and crept down the hallway past his parents' room. There was an eerie silence downstairs when Frank reached the kitchen and he was alone with all of the empty space. It felt like ice down his spine when he shivered at the touch of cool air against his skin. The boy searched around the room for what he was looking for. His eyes became frantic and his fingers itched, opening up each cabinet and drawer.

Frank's eyes lit up and he nearly squealed as the object in the computer drawer became visible. A long red lighter that seemed to twinkle under the fluorescence of the lights in the ceiling. He quickly snatched the lighter from the wooden drawer and looked around the room for something, _anything_ that would give him an idea of what to do with it. There were two things on the counter: a nearly full roll of paper towels and a medium-sized, white porcelain bowl sitting on top of the cool marble. The knobs and gears in Frank's brain were working at full speed as he put the lighter under his arm and grabbed the two things from the island counter.

Sliding open the glass door at the back of the kitchen wasn't easy to do with his hands full-- especially when trying to do so quietly-- but Frank managed it. As he was stepping outside, he began to realize just how _cold_ it was. But he powered through when the boy's bare feet hit the brick stairs that lead down to the patio. Frank almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a little voice behind him asking what he was up to with a lighter, a bowl, and paper towels. He froze, not knowing how to answer at the moment because-- what _was_ he doing?

Instead of uttering any logical reasoning, Frank simply shushed the boy-- Caleb-- and said that he'd find out if he went outside with Frank. That part was true, I suppose, and it seemed like a good enough explanation for Caleb because the boy just beamed and skipped across the kitchen, taking the porcelain bowl from Frank's arm. The cold air hit him as well, but Caleb didn't mind as much because Frank was setting everything down on the tiny wooden table and twiddling the lighter methodically. As soon as the light flicked on and the tiny flicker lit up Frank's face, Caleb set the bowl down on the table next to the paper towels.

There was a simple mutterance of 'watch this' before Frank started to rip off little pieces of paper from the towel roll and bunch them up in his hands. He set each wadded up piece in the porcelain container and once it was about filled to the brim with the paper, Frank picked up the lighter again. He flicked it on (though it did take him a few tries with the wind blowing a bit more harshly) and set the flame against the top of the paper stack. Caleb caught onto what was happening later than one usually would but became slightly confused at Frank's undying fascination.

Frank had long forgotten the other boy at this point, he leaned close to the fire and breathed softly inward as the scent of burning wood filled him. It smelled like summer, a bit like roasting smores, and the enticed child wondered where the burning paper got its bittersweet aroma. He watched the one flame sitting on top of the paper towel split in two, consuming and blackening the edges bit by bit. Little strings of orange and blue flickers multiplied at each edge, finally pouring down toward the middle of the paper. Before Frank could blink, the porcelain bowl was filled with a crackling waterfall of warm hues and it had bled through every little piece of paper in the bowl. The white and pristine life of the paper was gone, coal-black ripping through its soul in its place.

Caleb called for Frank but the other boy couldn't hear over the suffocating daze that gripped him. The flames were beginning to streak scorch marks on the shimmering porcelain. Embers spun like primadonnas and caught in the wind, leaping from the bowl at each lick of air and each breath from its north direction. Frank's heartbeat was deafening in his own ears and quickening still as he fixated himself on the pieces of fiery paper dancing out of their darkening prison. The fire started to land on the table and it was too close for Caleb's comfort, so he spoke again. It was to no avail.

Frank couldn't tear his eyes away if he wanted to as the tabletop caught fire and Caleb ran back into the house. A sickening satisfaction gripped Frank's stomach; The wooden table was burning, a new fire born from the paper's ash. He almost enjoyed watching the flame split again, larger the second time as the table's edge charred. The fire charged like a nation in battle, a beautiful army with millions of little soldiers dressed in yellow and orange. It captured each respective territory and expanded its horizons, and it was the most gorgeous chaos that one could imagine.

Frank didn't grasp the situation, his mind minutes behind as he was yanked to his feet by the back of his shirt and he gasped for air. Then it was cold, _freezing,_ and the army in yellow was massacred by pouring rain. Frank held his throat, angry, but his blood became ice when he looked up to see his father, livid, holding a bowl with only drips of water left in it. His mother was rushing through the door after Frank heard her voice tell the boys in the kitchen to stay put. Her hair bounced on her shoulders and she drank in the scene with terror in her eyes.

Frank had set the table on fire and watched it burn. It was black and rigid now. Mr. Iero had poured water over Frank and the table. The little boys that Frank had brought over to celebrate his birthday with were all in the kitchen chattering among themselves. The aforementioned birthday boy looked at his hands and understood what he had done and why his father was so angry. But he didn't understand why he let it happen in the first place. There were only confused murmurs now and Caleb's voice was heard above the others, just barely.

_"Frankie set the table on fire."_

\-----❤-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited that I decided to make this my first work on this site, having matured from a lot of the stuff I've written before. Keep in mind that I'm super duper new to this, so please tell me if I do something wrong or haven't labeled something properly.
> 
> -Gummi
> 
> \-----❤-----


	3. I Won't Go Down By Myself

Please understand that I have never been-- and will never be-- just like anyone else.

I was only eleven when it was discovered there was something wrong with me. I didn't know what exactly was wrong and neither did my parents, but it was clear that everything in my brain didn't add up. I was quickly put into therapy after the incident at my birthday party and it was written off as some honest mistake-- I just told it like it was, I didn't know what to do so I just watched the table burn. Nobody could point out exactly what happened or why which made it very difficult to figure things out. But after a while, we stopped talking about it as if it was just something that happened in the past and was inconsequential.

I did, however, start to become bitter at my parents for putting me through all of this therapy for what I thought was nothing. As I grew up to the age of maybe 13 or 14, I started a whole stage of pushback against the system that they upheld. And while I don't like to call it my rebellious phase, it most certainly was. I began to distance myself from my family and start hanging around people I knew they wouldn't like-- the punk crowd. The night before my first day of 8th grade, I cut my own hair so that it swooshed over my eye (mind you, it looked like a pretty decent job despite the fact that I had cut it myself). My mother inevitably pretended she was going to have a heart attack when she saw what I was doing.

I had a crowd now, I had been adopted into the punkie group by none other than Billie Joe Armstrong himself. It was a rough few days getting used to the looks people gave us, but after a while, I couldn't even be bothered to look at the kids who looked down on us. It wasn't worth my valuable time that I could spend brooding or thrashing or writing on the bathroom walls. If they didn't want to understand me, I wouldn't bother to be understandable. 

Around the time I moved up to high school was when I really started to develop thoughts I wouldn't normally have. I thought about my life and what it meant, how much would things change if I changed? I thought about math and science and why things weren't adding up. I thought about how I felt a lot, I wanted to do things that weren't characteristic of me. It was either an overwhelming urge to stay home and isolate myself or a crazed gut feeling that the void could be filled with girls and parties. There was no in-between. I started thinking about fire again, mostly after Tre offered me a joint; I had never smoked before, but Tre and Billie Joe both did, as well as Bert and Jimmy and some of the other punkies.

Punks were known potheads-- and who was I to say no to giving the in-crowd another reason to look at me funny? So I took it. The fumes filled me and I coughed and dropped the joint on the ground. Billie Joe laughed and said that was Jimmy's first reaction, too. I didn't feel like as much of a loser after that. 

Throughout high school, I developed depression and a mild form of what Billie Joe called fire frenzy. I'd always have a lighter in my hand. Whenever I'd flip it open, it felt like I was in another world. Time was slower when I watched the flame sway in my hand. My friends and I'd skip class to go into the bathrooms and smoke; I'd always laugh a bit and light something on fire. It started with toilet paper. I'd take a square or two and light the corner, then I'd hold it until it got too close to my hand. I would throw it in the toilet afterward and go back to what I was doing before.

It developed into something much bigger than I hoped it would at first. I began to use more toilet paper, then use paper towels and put them in the sink and watch them burn. Having that power in the palm of my hand, in a tiny red container, that was a power trip that became a stumbling block. Bert laughed over his joint while sitting on the counter one day during a 5th-period smoke break. He said, only half-jokingly, that I shout light a paper towel machine on fire or something. I laughed as well, but Bille Joe looked at me expectantly-- it was as if he wanted to see if I'd really do it. A test.

I couldn't forget what was running through my head when I made the decision to do something with the lighter: I had to impress Billie Joe. I smirked and my mind was made up as I mumbled a little absent, 'Here, watch.' I hit the top of the paper towel dispenser so roughly that it shocked Jimmy and Bert. I grabbed the end of the roll and pulled just as roughly, taking almost all of the paper that was on the roll. I decided that was good enough before I ripped it off and scrunched it up slightly (but only so I could fit the mass of paper in one hand). There was an intake of breath when I flicked on the lighter and lit the corner. 

The fire spread more quickly throughout the dry and dense paper as I threw it into the trash can by the sink. Bert hopped off of the counter and came rushing over next to the rest of our crowd as we huddled over the trashcan. The flame just started to die out and there was a collective groan before something cold was pressed into my hand. I looked down at the little bottle of hold-down-the-top Axe cologne. It was like a match (no pun intended) made in heaven and I almost giggled with excitement.

I felt drunk with power when I flicked on the lighter again and told everyone to stand by the door. They all did. I took in a breath and aimed the line of fire into the trash can, pressing down the top of the Axe can. Like a makeshift flamethrower, fire sprayed into the bin filled with paper and various plastics. Hot air hit my face from the pure backfire of it and I almost cried out with excitement. I ran toward the door where everyone was waiting and laughed as I told them to flee the scene of the crime. 

It was a day later when I was actually caught. Nobody else was ratted out because I was the one who started the fire. It was Bert, obviously, the more I thought about it. He didn't even like me, why wouldn't he call me out for his reward? When I was leaving the next day, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and pushed Bert against the locker before spitting right across his face. Billie Joe yelled something, but I was seething and I couldn't hear it. I called Bert a slimy rat and let him go, stomping off angrily to the office, where I was made to sign out and go home. To hell with Social Sciences anyway, and to hell with all the good-for-nothing snakes I called my friends.

I don't even think my mom knew what to say when I got into the car. They told her that her son, at only 15, set fire to something which belonged to the school. Her little Frankie set fire to a school bathroom and ran away. I don't know if she was surprised, but to this day, I think she'd seen it coming since I was 11. She asked what I was thinking, why I would do something so stupid, and I just shrugged tiredly. I didn't want to fight, I didn't want to answer questions, I wanted to go home and cry because of how _used_ I felt. I didn't have any friends, I had a few nice kids who decided to keep me around for a joint and a good time when they weren't busy in their 5th hour. 

I didn't talk to Billie Joe for two weeks after that-- and even then, I felt something missing. I hurt in my chest when I saw him pass me in the hall on a bad day. He'd high-five me if he was in the mood, say hi and keep walking. We still smoked during the 5th hour, but that's almost all we did. I ached to be close with Billie Joe again, and in my wiser years, knowing what I know now, I really do believe that Billie Joe Armstrong was my first heartbreak.

\-----❤-----


End file.
